


Dirty Numb Angel Boy

by punkrockgaia



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Indiscriminate sex, M/M, glam trash Cecil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/punkrockgaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let your feelings slip, boy, but never your mask, boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Numb Angel Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [videntefernandez](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=videntefernandez).



> This is something that came to me in a flash while listening to some music.

It's the bodies. The bodies and the sweat. The bodies and the sweat and the pounding, grinding bass. That's what makes you feel real. The lights pulse above you, but that just gives you a headache. You close your eyes as tight as you can. The smoke machine just disturbs the pheromones wafting through the air to your nose. You can't close your nose, but you try to ignore it.

Hard hands grab your hips, grind your ass against something even harder. Your back arches. This is where you belong. Soon the hands are snaking under the waistband of your pants.

Ungh. He's gripping you, stroking. The music slams and throbs in time. You want. You are wanting. That is what you are. You are wanting. You push your hips back in time and hear animal grunts, and the hand is gone. You are left, again, wanting. It is what you are.

You gasp into the fetid air. The music is a part of you, you are a part of it. It throbs, it strobes, you throb, you strobe. Another pair of hands, this time in front of you, grabs you and forces you forward. There is a face, but you don't look. You don't want to know if this is the face of the friendly man at the bowling alley or the nice fellow who gave you six peaches for the price of five at the grocery store. 

It doesn't matter. You're driven forward into a muscular thigh, and it's all that exists for now. The hands come up your sides, tease your nipples, lift your jaw for a kiss. You squeeze your eyes tight.

The kiss is hard and needy. His tongue is thick and hot and tastes of vodka and garlic. You suck on the tongue. You hear a groan, and you are passed on once again.

You are suddenly aware that this is a garden party, and you are the hors-d'oeuvre. You are fine with this.

Many hands grope you, sliding over your body. A thrumming low sound pounds through the air. You are penetrated, by fingers, by tongues, by cocks. You take them all, a saint penetrated by the sharp beams of the grace of the Gods. You are hollow, you are holy, you are sanctified at last.

You are dragged down to your knees, a sharp pain befitting a martyr. You are stripped bare, or bare enough. Then suddenly, you are no longer hollow, you are filled. So filled, filled in your mouth, in your ass, in your soul. There is a great tingling, and you are overfilled. Sticky nectar fills everything, every hollow, every empty broken place inside you.

And then it ends. And you are empty. You are broken. And you are picked up, and people whisper "sweet thing," and they help you walk to the door. And they help you sit on the curb. And they help you dial your phone, and they help you make a call.

And then they leave.

And you sit on the curb, dying from cold. And a loud, belching truck pulls up, and strong arms lift you into the cab. And you sit against the door.

And a beautiful, pale face looks at you, mouth a straight line of anger.

"It's so easy, isn't it, Cecil?" the straight mouth says.

"Yes, it's so easy," you say, and you laugh. You laugh and laugh and laugh as the angry mouth in the beautiful face hauls you up the stairs to a cold mattress and slams the door behind him as he leaves.

You laugh until you cry. You curl into your nest of blankets. And then you sleep.

And then there's nothing.


End file.
